


To Make a Posset

by medusine



Series: Life at the Spy-Glass Inn [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Post-Series, Prompt Fill, Thomas and John pushing each other's buttons, implied ot4 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: Thomas tries his hand at cooking. Flint and Silver watch, and mock, and laugh.





	To Make a Posset

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a prompt fill for [arzani-fuchsia](https://arzani-fuchsia.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr: “tell me what to do, please!” with SilverFlintHamilton.
> 
> You don't need to read it, but it follows [Irretrievably Entangled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769546) and is set post-series, with everyone living happily in Bristol.
> 
> A bit of vocabulary: coryza is an 18th century word for a runny nose/a cold.

**To Make a Posset**

_Take a quart of new Cream, a quarter of an ounce of Cynamon, Nutmeg quartered, and boyl it till it taste of the spice, and keep it alwayes stirring, or it will burn to; then take the yolks of 7 Eggs beaten well together with a little cold Creame; then put that into the other Creame that is on the fire, and stir it till it begin to boyle; then take it off and sweeten it with Sugar, and stir on till it be indifferent coole; then take somewhat more than a quarter of a pinte of Sack (half a pinte will be too much) sweeten that also, and set it on the fire till it be ready to boyle; then put it in a convenient vessel, and pour your Creame into it, elevating your hand to make it froath, which is the grace of your Posset; and if you put it thorow a tunnell, it is held the more exquisite way._

– The Art of Cookery Refined and Augmented, 1654

“Maybe you should scale down the recipe if the pot's too small,” Flint pointed out when Thomas had chased the last billow of smoke out of the window, flapping a kitchen rag after it. The stench of burned dairy, on the other hand, was going to linger for hours.

“And how would you scale down a recipe that requires seven egg yolks, pray?”

Flint had to swallow down a smirk at the frosty edge of Thomas' voice. He couldn't say that he didn't enjoy watching him struggle. Everything usually seemed to come so easily and naturally to Thomas that seeing him stumped once in a while was a welcome change.

“I'm just saying, those are seven good eggs.” And Thomas was no cook, and Flint hated waste.

“Ah, there you are!” Flint had been too focused on Thomas to even hear Silver come in. Puzzlement etched its way on Silver's face as he took in Thomas amidst a variety of cooking utensils and ingredients. Then a mischievous smirk curled his lips. “Well well well, what do we have here?”

“I don't need another spectator, thank you very much,” came Thomas' retort.

Of course this only made Silver smirk wider. He hopped towards Flint and unceremoniously settled in his lap. Sometimes, he reminded Flint of the cat. It never did as it was told, fled at the first sign of trouble, and invariably chose to hang around when it was most unwelcome. And in spite of that, Flint couldn't help feeling a warm glow whenever the cat – and Silver – elected to settle on his lap.

“How much of this have I missed?” Silver asked, his warm breath tickling Flint's throat. One of Flint's arms automatically wrapped Silver's waist to keep him secure.

“Not much. Just a bit of cream boiling over.”

“That pot was much too small,” Thomas snapped. He was looking decidedly rumpled, a look that Flint quite enjoyed. He'd rolled up his sleeves over his elbows, baring his shapely forearms. His hair was on the dishevelled side from having been worried every time Thomas ran his fingers through it in frustration, and his face glowed pink from the heat of the kitchen. And, likely, from the annoyance at being revealed as such a poor cook.

Silver made an amused sound. “And what is all this cooking in aid of, may I ask?”

“It's for Madi. I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that she has a touch of coryza,” Thomas said. “My mother swore by this when someone was feeling unwell.”

“Ah, so you're preparing a purgative,” Silver said brightly. “Very thoughtful, my Lord.”

“John,” Flint admonished softly, gently squeezing his hip.

Thomas narrowed his eyes at Silver. “Well I don't see _you_ taking care of her.”

“Er, excuse me,” Silver started, and by the higher pitch of his voice Flint knew that Thomas had just expertly pressed one of his buttons. “I was with her not a few minutes ago. She told me she wanted to rest and, more importantly, that she'd rather not eat anything. I left her with some hot wine and a bed warmer. She's got all she needs.”

“Well at some point she'll need to eat, and then she can have a posset. It's capital against chills.”

“Oh right, _capital_ ,” Silver repeated in a perfect imitation of Thomas' accent. Flint rolled his eyes. “And how does one go about making such a specialised remedy?”

“I have a recipe right here,” Thomas said primly. What he didn't say, but Flint knew, was that he was finding the recipe hard to follow. Even Flint found the instructions both vague and overly technical, and he'd been cooking on an off for decades. “In fact if you don't mind I'll get back to it right now.”

With more of a flourish than necessary, Thomas turned back to the fire and to the pot of spice-infused cream that had just recently boiled over. Flint and Silver watched quietly as Thomas attempted to finish cracking eggs, getting rid of the whites, and tipping the yolks into a bowl, all the while keeping an eye on the heating cream. That had been why the pot had boiled over in the first place.

“This is better than watching drunk men playing darts,” Silver murmured in Flint's ear. Flint shushed him.

“James, it's boiling!” Thomas called out, his tone more than a little alarmed.

“Well? What's the next step?”

“I–” Thomas frantically searched the table for the scrap of paper on which he'd jotted down the recipe.

“Oh Thomas you disappoint,” Silver said. “I thought you intellectuals could do just about anything without needing to refer to instructions!”

“Shut up and tell me what to do! Please!”

“Am I supposed to shut up or to tell you what to do?” asked Silver with a chuckle.

“Take it off the heat,” Flint said, louder than Silver. Watching Thomas squirm a bit was one thing but, unlike Silver apparently, Flint didn't want to see him make a mess of this.

Thomas did as he was told, though he put the scorching pot straight onto the wooden table. Silver hissed as though he'd been burned himself, but Thomas seemed a bit too frantic to pick up on the fact he'd just ruined a perfectly good tabletop. He finally found his recipe and read it over.

“Right. Add sugar to taste, then it goes into the cold egg mixture,” he muttered to himself. Flint had the feeling he was skipping a step, but couldn't recall what it was. In the meantime, Thomas liberally sprinkled sugar into the steaming cream, gave it a brief stir, then gingerly picked up the pot.

“Not so fa–” Flint started, but it was too late. Thomas had poured the hot cream onto the raw eggs. “Stir it, quick!”

On Flint's lap, Silver shook with silent laughter as Thomas stared at Flint, nonplussed, before whisking the mixture none too gently. Flint gave a long sigh, hoping that the cream wouldn't have had time to cook the eggs.

“Should it have bits in it?” Thomas asked.

Silver gasped for air, wheezing with laughter. Flint squeezed him closer to him, both to shush him and to keep him from losing his balance.

“Does it have a lot of bits?” Flint asked.

“Not... exceedingly,” Thomas said, still bent over his work.

“Then I suppose it's fine.”

“If you like scrambled eggs,” Silver added, having regained his breath, and Flint sharply poked him in the ribs. He could mock all he liked, but Silver hadn't known about that either until he'd tried to make a custard a few weeks back. Flint had barely managed to save it.

Thomas shot Silver a glare out of the corner of his eye, but returned to his recipe. He added quite a bit of good white wine to the mixture, and stirred.

“I can't say my mother's posset looked like this,” Thomas said after a while.

Flint wasn't surprised. “Show me what it looks like.”

Thomas brought the pot over. Flint craned his neck so he could better see the mess of Thomas' recipe over Silver's shoulder. Lumps of cooked egg, big and small, floated in the creamy substance. It probably wouldn't taste _bad_ but it certainly wasn't appetising.

“It still needs to cook a bit, doesn't it?” Flint said. Hopefully that might help it set.

“You're right,” Thomas said with a sigh. “Can't hurt to try.” He'd taken a few steps towards the fire when Silver spoke.

“It looks like what the baby puked up,” he muttered, nearly absently.

“The baby?” Flint said, intrigued mainly by Silver's tone. More often than he knew, Silver gave away some small clue about his past. Flint usually just collected these hints in a corner of his mind, quietly piecing together what he knew. This time he couldn't help but ask.

Silver turned to him, frowning. “A baby, any baby. Haven't you ever seen a baby puke?”

“Not up close,” Flint answered, while Thomas simultaneously said “Actually, no.” Thomas had stopped midway to the fire and turned back towards them. He gave Flint a little smile when their eyes met; he too must have picked up on Silver's revealing comment.

“Well, that's what it looks like,” said Silver, his tone harsher than before. He pointed at the pot of curdled cream. “Well done Thomas, you've made Cream of Baby Vomit. I'm sure Madi will be cured of her appetite forevermore.”

Thomas visibly bristled. “Now listen here you little–” he snarled, whipping the spoon out of the mix to point it at Silver. Gobs of mixture splattered across the room. Silver let out a revolted cry, and Flint yelped in surprise when some of it splashed right into in his eye.

All of a sudden, everything went quiet.

“James, are you all right?” Thomas asked.

“Fine,” Flint grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve. His eye stung like a bitch and tears had already started streaming down his cheek.

“It's a bit red,” Silver observed from up close. “But I don't think the mixture was hot enough to burn you.”

Silver pressed a kiss to the corner of Flint's eye, and Flint saw Thomas' face relax into a gentle smile.

“May I?” As Silver shifted back, Thomas kissed Flint's eyelid, his lips feather-light. Then he turned to Silver and bent to kiss a gob of the mixture off his temple, making Silver shiver ever so slightly in Flint's lap. Flint was glad, because if Silver was distracted then he'd maybe miss the barely concealed look of disgust on Thomas' face when he tasted his own concoction.

“I may have gone a bit far with the goading,” Silver admitted after a beat.

“Yes, maybe,” Thomas said quietly. He obviously knew Silver well enough by now not to expect a better apology than that.

“What's going on here? Why were you shouting?”

Madi was standing in the doorway. Her usually clear voice was husky, and she was tightly wrapped in a bright green woollen shawl. She only ever wore it to bed, considering that it was quite crude, but a warm feeling spread in Flint's chest every time he saw her wear what he'd made for her.

“And what's that?” Madi pointed to the ground, her brow furrowed.

Only then did Flint notice the streak of white lumpy posset in the middle of the kitchen floor. Then he spotted, with growing annoyance, splashes of the stuff in bizarre and random places: up the walls, on pans and utensils, speckling shelves. Bookshelves. And likely the books, too.

“I was just, um, experimenting with something and we got a bit excited,” Thomas said with an easy smile, managing somehow not to sound desperately embarrassed, though Flint was sure he was. “You should be in bed, Madi. Shall I walk you back upstairs?”

Madi gave a grumpy shrug, but took Thomas' arm when he offered it to her and leaned her head on his shoulder, snuggling up to him.

“And I'm sure you two can clean that up,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Flint and Silver, his smile just bordering on wicked. Flint heard Silver's outraged little gasp at having been so easily outmanoeuvred.

“Yes, please do,” Madi said, trying to repress a sniffle. “It looks like a baby was sick in here.”

And then Flint had to grab Silver before he rolled off of his lap, writhing with uncontrollable laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [medusinestories](https://medusinestories.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and I'm happy to yell with you about silly pirates!


End file.
